The Dawn of Life
by TenTenD
Summary: Ragnelle had not Guinevere's love for weapons. She had not her father's skill for leading battle. Nor did she possess a power beyond any other human, just a knowledge of herbs and medicines. But she would see peace in the land and serve to strengthen it as well as she could. Merlin's daughter in the court of Arthur.
1. Chapter 1

Nimue broke the flower stem with her spindly fingers and pulled it into the wreath. "And a bloom of blue for luck," she breathed softly. On the grass, amid multicoloured flowers, her daughter slept on. Placing the ring of flower onto the ground, Nimue stroked her child's hair. Her precious daughter, so frail and pale as winter. For all she had her father's dark hair and dark eyes, Ragnelle had come into this world half-dead. But she had fought and lived still.

"Woman, enough for today!" Merlin's voice broke her out of her reverie. "Darkness comes in haste." Ever the warrior, Merlin approached them with his sword at his hip and a slight smile upon his lips. He picked his daughter in strong arms and chuckled when she refused to open her eyes as to greet the world. He looked upon the girl's mother. "You have painted her as a warrior."

"Blue, for luck and fortune," Nimue agreed. Blue, to protect the child from charms and evils of their world. Ragnelle was yet small, a babe in the woods, helpless should she fall from her mother's hands. "Mayhap in time she will gain strength."

Merlin shook his head. Nimue meant well, but Ragnelle was not and never would be a warrior, she had not the making of one. Nay, his daughter had wit enough and strength of character, but her arms were not for bearing weapons. That did not bother him. Nimue might have thought it her failure not to have given him a son, but the man loved his daughter just as well. His brothers-in-arms had sons enough. "Should she take to the reading of bones I'll be just as pleased. Come, woman, the feast will begin soon. Do not fret any longer. Rest and have your fill of drink and food."

Obediently, Nimue followed her husband to the chief's hall. Her own thought shifting from her daughter. Summer would soon fade, and winter would approach fast. She wondered how long the man would war this winter. Romans were weaker in the months the wolf packs travelled up the river seeking food and shelter. Of course, they were never weak enough to leave. A light scowl marred her features, and Nimue shook it away. To worry over such was not her problem. The men would see to it.

Thus passed the seasons upon all. Wind blew hard and harsh, howling through the trees and over the hills. Clouds gathered upon the sky, raining down showers of ice and cold and death of those not strong enough to survive. Men waged war, women fought and grieved, and the world moved on. The sun rose each day, and children grew and old men died. Despite everything, hope persisted. Freedom would not be easily won, but the change of it was there and men clung to it with iron fists and bows and arrows and swords and knifes. It was the way in which their world revolved and spun them round and round.

Along with the passing of season grew the daughter of Merlin. Ragnelle, studious even as a child, took little pleasure in playing with the other children. She would rather follow her father around and learn from him the art of healing. There was something utterly fascinating about the wildlife found in the woods. Short legs pumped with fervour to keep up with her father's longer strides. Merlin, ever patient, took great care in the education of his child. "Warriors are of great importance," her father had said, sitting her down by the thick and protruding roots of a three, "but equally important are the healers. There is no life without death, child. But there need not to too much death when it can be prevented." He was a hard taskmaster, demanding only the best from his daughter.

Ragnelle equally loved and feared the man, for she was love in him, but also the power to take what life he'd given. Time soothed all. And as she grew, the girl leaned that her world, dark and full of terrors as it was, had its own light hidden in the deep blankness.

And so began a tale that would sail the centuries…

* * *

Hers was a country of rolling mists and flowing hills and cool air. Ragnelle sat by the tall trees at the edge of the copse. This was a place of worship, the gods had infused their power through the roots and up the trunks to the thin braches. The young woman leaned against one such tree. She hummed softly grinding a cluster of mushrooms into powder. She did not look up at the sound of children laughing, nor did the pay attention to the stamping of feet. She dipped the tip of her finger into the dust she'd created, moving it back and forth as if to better stir. She picked another mushroom and placed in gently in the bowl, after which she minced it with a sharp stone. And so on and so forth; lost in her task, Ragnelle did not even see that she was being approached by another girl residing in her village.

"Won't you come and join us?" the Woad asked, her voice holding something like uncertainty. "In a fight with the Romans those powders of yours won't lend you much help."

Ragnelle looked up from her work. Guinevere stood before her, a sly smile on her face. Older than Ragnelle, she stood also a better fighter. Her arms were skilled enough with a bow and she could wield a long knife. However she was a rash young woman, likely to find her death sooner rather than later. For all that her heart was good. Ragnelle smiled back, a brief stretch of lips. "Many thank, but I prefer my work with plans." She raised her arms up, the covering of her sleeves sliding downwards revealing slender limbs. "These arms are not fir to hold a bow."

"Aye," Guinevere agreed not a moment later. "But how about a knife? You could make use of a small one, I reckon." She pulled one of Ragnelle's arms to her and felt it. "With the added strength of your body, you could at least have a chance at survival."

Shaking her head gently, Ragnelle refused yet again. "Mine is a path of the healer, daughter of Cywryd. Take up arms as you will, and I shall see to the healing of wounds as I must." That woman's heart longed for battle and greatness. Should she tread without care, Ragnelle feared death would claim her all too soon. It was not so much that she cared for the other woman, she didn't know her nearly well enough to de distraught should anything happen to her, but as a fellows clanswoman she felt a faint stirring within her. "Have a care, sister mine."

Having apparently done her part, Guinevere retreated swiftly. Many thought her father a dark magician, and for that reason feared him. Ragnelle herself was the subject of whispered concerns. Had her father passed his magic to her? He must have, for how else had life been breathed back into her when she'd been born with no breath of her own? Aye, to them she was a creature of fairy dust and charmed words. Ragnelle resisted the urge to smile. Better that. It helped tremendously that as a child she'd started bleeding from her nose at the oddest moment. One moment she would be bent over a patch of herbs, the other she had her fingers pressed to her nose, watching in fascination as blood dribbled down her fingers into her palm. All sorts of tales had sprung from then onwards.

"The best of luck to you on patrol!" Ragnelle added hurriedly to the swiftly retreating Guinevere. She received a wave for her concern and a warm smile.

"You are not as fearsome as you like to pretend," Guinevere yelled back. "It is you who should have a care, sister, or you shall loose all claim to your title as sorceress."

A painful blow that. Ragnelle chuckled. Nay, she would not want it to be known that, indeed, compassion ruled her at times. Eyes shifting to her work, she noted that there were no more mushrooms. "Ah, that should be all for now," she considered out loud. Sitting up, Ragnelle stretched her arms and breathed deeply. Her mother would probably need her back to help with the stew soon. Collecting her small bowl from the ground, Ragnelle coveredit with a white cloth, she grabbed the sharp stone in her other hand and started walking down the hill.

Little away from the path, the archers has set their targets and were busy practicing. Ragnelle stopped a moment to look at them. Many were young men, just boys really, the women were older, of an age with her, Ragnelle was sure. She searched for Guinevere and found her helping Dagmar with her stance. To think that some of these lads and lasses would be gone when the next raid on the Romans had come to pass, such a pity. Ragnelle had once asked her father what it was that the Romans had done to incur the wrath of the gods. Merlin had answered that they'd taken what was not theirs to take. Her home, that was what they had taken. Bur war bred only war, hatred and monsters. It made beasts of good, decent men. A curse of their own making, her father had said. While Ragnelle partly agreed, she also felt that something more could have been done.

"Lass, you shouldn't brave the dark on your own," a well-known voice startled Ragnelle. Cyr, son of Brenwyk, stood beside her, his bearded jaw clenched. "Merlin would have our heads if an ill befalls you."

"Cyr, you join the patrol on this eve do you not?" Brenwyk's son nodded his answer. "Keep watch over yours. And may the gods keep you all safe."

She was about to start on her way again when Cyr took hold of her wrist. Ragnelle turned, dark eyes oddly empty. She waited for his words. "When I come back, share house with me."

Considering the man before her, Ragnelle studied his features closely. He was not the handsomest man in her village, but he was broad-shouldered and hard-working, strong and brave. His eyes were the colour of the crying sky, his mouth a straight line. That face of his had been carved out of stone, except when he grinned, a wide opening of his mouth, showing strong teeth. She could do worse. Yet she felt nothing when she looked upon him, not even a stir within her. Ragnelle supposed that she was to be blamed for that. A being weak in body such as her, she ought to have known she would not be able to withstand the amalgam of emotions her brethrens held within them.

"I shall be waiting for you," she told him. Ragnelle held no doubt that he had spoken to her father. Merlin held the man in high regard, and his daughter, who was usually a mirror of her father in such matters, held him in equally high regard.

Extricating her wrist from his hold, Ragnelle hurried across the green fields and to the cluster of huts. She stepped around the dogs that had gathered and whistled low and short. One of the bigger ones sprang to its feet, and Ragnelle called it over. "Home, boy, Come." The dog followed her obediently until they'd reached the entrance. Ragnelle pushed the animal skin from her way and looked inside. Her mother sat by the fire, her father was not there. Once more she called after the dog. "Swyr, come."

Swyr slunk alongside the wall, deftly avoiding a cup that was thrown after him. "You bring the mutt again!" Nimue chided her daughter. "Think you I cook the meals for him?" She threw the dog a heated look.

"Swyr saved my life, mother," Ragnelle reminded her only present parent. It had happened years ago when she was still a girl. Ragnelle had ventured into the woods far beyond the copse. Now she could not quite remember what her line of thinking had been then, but she'd encountered a wolf. Not uncommon by any means, except that the beast hungered and she was small and weak, good prey. He would have feasted upon her flesh if not for Swyr. The dog must have followed her from the village, Ragnelle hadn't even noticed him before he jumped in front of her, baring fangs at the hunter. So it came that the two fought for what seemed like hours to Ragnelle, until she had picked herself up and started throwing rocks at the wolf. In the end it had run away, probably too tired to fight both girl and dog. Swyr had lost an eye and a deep wound had decorated his belly for many moons. But he'd lived and since then, Ragnelle had given him a special place in her heart and at her side.

Sitting at her mother's side, Ragnelle took a small bowl and filled it with food. Then she felt for the bones and threw them Swyr way with a promise for more. Although she didn't particularly like her daughter's companion, Nimue had not denied him a meal yet. "Cyr has asked me to his house," she told her mother, her face blank.

"Moves fast, the boy does," Nimue replied. "I am glad daughter. Will you see him off?"

"I have said my piece," Ragnelle assured her mother. "There is nothing else." And there wasn't. When he came back they would share furs and a home, and if the gods were willing she would bare him sons soon. She turned to Swyr and gave him a wide piece of her bread.

"As you wish," Nimue sighed. She turned just in time to see her man entering. "You've arrived at last." Nimue passed him a bowl filled to the brim. "Sit, eat."

Following her father's example, Ragnelle swallowed a mouthful of stew. Swyr wagged his tail, stretching at her feet. She pushed his gently away. "Later," she promised, but snuck another piece of bread.

"Feed him to your heart's content, daughter," Merlin finally gave his permission. "Cyr has spoken with you." It was not a question, merely an observation on her father's part.

"Aye." Ragnelle doubled her response with a nod. That must have been as much as her father had wanted to know for he asked no further questions of her. It suited her fine.

Rolling onto her side after she had finished eating, Ragnelle pulled a fur across herself and shooed Swyr to her feet. She closed her eyes and tried not to think of Cyr and living with him. Batter that he has not asked. Falling into an uneasy slumber, Ragnelle was visited that night by shadows carrying with them blood and death and pain. She woke covered in cold sweat with Swyr's nose bumping hers.

"Off," she ordered the beast quietly. Throwing the coverings aside, Ragnelle looked to her sleeping parents. Her hand came to rest upon her breast. "A scare of the night, nothing more." Climbing to her feet, the young woman made her way outside, Swyr faithfully at her heel. The sun had not rised yet, despite the light. Ragnelle decided to go to the lake, near the wide rocks. A swim would do her good. It would cool her heated skin and ease her mind of burdens.

The walk was not a very long one. She could be back in time for food if she did not dally, Ragnelle decided. "Saty here," she told Swyr as she discarded her long dress, remaining in a white chemise. Weighing her options, the woman came to the conclusion that she should wash her dress as well. She threw her chemise off and jumped into the cool water. Swyr barked, staying at the edge. Ragnelle broke out to the surface and looked at her pet. "No need for that, Swyr. I shan't disappear." She submerged once more, running her fingers through her tangled hair. Scrubbing, Ragnelle came up for air. She spit out a mouthful of water then continued to wash herself.

Swimming to the bank she dragged her dress in, the dark material darkening further under the action of water. Swyr growled a warning at her when she threw water his way. Ragnelle laughed. "You stink!" As if understanding he was being insulted Swyr barked even louder, nearing the edge. Ragnelle called him in. The dog hesitated. "Come," she tried to make her voice as commanding as possible. Swyr retreated a few steps back, stared at her in indecision and then he ran straight into the water. It was a sight, truly, seeing the beast peddle about. At least he would not smell so bad after.

Ragnelle climbed out of the pool and shook the water off. Cool air assaulted her but she paid it little mind. Instead she pulled her chemise back on after a few moments in which she'd dried herself off. Over it she pulled a fur to hide her sodden state. Barefoot she ran all the way home, Swyr close behind. By the time she was back her mother had already gotten a fire roaring and was preparing food. She looked her daughter over. "You'll catch your death."

"I shan't." Her protest went unanswered. Instead she was forced to sit down by the fire to warm herself up. Nimue murmured something about her daughter having ice in her veins and wrapped a blanket around her.

"By the time Cyr returns you will have found your place in the halls of our ancestors." The mother tapped her foot to the ground in a show of annoyance. "Gods help us all." Ragnelle took great care not to let her amusement show. Her mother would only grow angrier for that and she was not above correcting her child with a strong hit to the head should there be need of such.

Loud commotion from outside had both women to their feet. Nimue took a long knife and handed another to her daughter. They exited the house together. Fianna ran past them hurriedly. She stopped all of a sudden and turned to stare at them. Light blue eyes filled with tear. "Brigd came back, she started. "Only Brigd came back."

Looking from Fianna to her mother, Ragnelle furrows her brows. "Only Brigd? How is that possible?"They had had a scouting mission. Even if they had seen enemies they should not have engaged into a fight.

Fianna wiped her tears away and shook her head. She had no more knowledge of this than them. "He will explain to us. Let us hurry."

Brigd stood a human mess before those who had gathered to listen to him. "We stood no chance. yr fell first. He put himself in the way of an arrow to save Guinevere. It shot in the neck, he bled out before our very eyes. Guinevere and I, we fought like wild animals, but too many and too strong."

"How did you escape?" Merlin's voice boomed, covering awed sounds of the audience.

"They knocked me down, hit me in the head. They must have thought I was dead and they left me there to rot. Cyr too. Only he was dead. Guinevere I never found. They must have taken her." The boy, for boy he was, was badly shaken.

Merlin nodded his acceptance. "My daughter shall see to your wounds." Ragnelle stepped forwards to take her charge, Fianna close behind. "See him to his hut and if you have need of anything you must but ask."

"Come, Fianna. Help me." Ragnelle allowed Brigd to rest his arm across his shoulders, Fianna doing the same. Together they saw him to his hut. "You should go," Ragnelle said. Fianna shook her head obstinately. "Fine then. You may bring me water from the river and see it boiled."

Hurrying away to do as she was required, Fianna left but Ragnelle and Brigd in the hut. Ragnelle unbuckled light armour, fighting with the animal skin that had caught to the man's flesh, sewn together by dried blood. His chest and back would need ointments and bandaging. Ragnelle sent Fianna fter those, claiming the task of boiling water for herself. The girl returned with Nimue in two, and the tree of them set to working of Brigd and his wounds.

Quiet and drawn was the light-eyed Fianna. Ragnelle watched the young girl with lingering envy. When she though of Cyr's death her feelings did not pass a fleeting pity. Not even sadness. Just pity for his cruel demise. The gods knew something must have been wrong with her if she could not summon the appropriate distress towards the man's death. Brigd would live, yet his sweetheart cried her eyes out as if he were burning on the pyre already. "Wipe your tears anon," Ragnelle commanded softly. "He lives and he will continue to do so if I have any say."

No sense in thinking of what was lost. Ragnelle bent over the boy's middle, dragging a once white cloth over the crust of dried blood. She wielded it with care, mindful of the sensitivity he presented. Brigd was quite brave through it all. He had gritted his teeth, only unclenching them for Fianna to place a piece of apple-wood for him to bite on. "You are brave," Ragnelle told the boy, giving him a small, odd smile. "The gods saw it."

"So was Guinevere. So was Cyr. And they do not live." Foolish pup, blaming himself for the misfortunes of others. "I failed them. I failed you all."

"You have not," Ragnelle assured him. "Cyr died by his own decision and Guinevere, if she yet lives, will find a way to come back to us. If not, hers was a warrior's demise. She would have wanted no less. Thus her wish is granted." Now she lied. Ragnelle was sure that if the Romans had taken Guinevere the poor woman was not granted death. "You must fight on, in the memory of Cyr and Guinevere."

Unconvinced, but too exhausted to protest further, Brigd closed his eyes and bit back into the wood as Ragnelle continued to work on the cleansening of his wounds. Some were deep, other shallow. All would heal with proper care. Some needed stitches. Ragnelle nodded towards her mother and Nimue prepared thread and needle. Fianna and herself held Brigd down while the wife of Merlin worked on him. He was a sorry sight, the boy, with his sad eyes. Ragnelle closed her eyes but a moment to rid herself of the sight of his mournful face. He could have done no more than he had.

When she stepped outside, Ragnelle found that tears had flooded her own eyes. What reason had she to cry? Sadness did not eat away at her insides for the death of Cyr. Nor did she cry for the sister that had been lost. Nay, Ragnelle though it must have been the pressure. Nimue wrapped an arm around her daughter's middle. "I do not cry for him, mother," Ragnelle said between sobs. She covered her mouth to muffle the embarrassing sounds. Almost grown and crying like a child, Ragnelle cursed inwardly.

"I know," Nimue told her. "Let us rest awhile at the copse and then we shall return to Brigd." She led her daughter away.

"I did not even see him off," Ragnelle breathed, leaning against the steady form of her mother. "He held my hand and looked at me with hope. And I, I pulled away. I hurt him."

"Would you have done any differently had you known he would o longer be of this world come morning?" Nimue thought that not. Ragnelle had a kind heart but her demeanour was often reserved. One had to know her well to get her warmth.

"Nay. Or perhaps aye. I know not, mother." Ragnelle sat in the grass, staring at the village. "But perhaps nay."

* * *

A/N: Yes, I own nothing! I regret nothing!And I hope you've enjoyed the first chapter. :)


	2. Chapter 2

Merlin gave his daughter a nod. "Come. It is time." Ragnelle gave her own consent. She stepped over the line of rocks and ambled slowly down the steep path. "Do not fear, daughter. I shall never be far behind. They are our allies, we must help."

"Aye, father." Ragnelle still did not know what to make of the incredible story that had unfolded before her very eyes. But she supposed that as things were done she had little say in it all. Romans, she was to help Romans as she understood it. Cyr's death, still on her mind, brought anger. It was not out of love of Cyr, but for the life of a brethren. Her kinsman. Ragnelle looked at her father. "And you say Guinevere specifically asked for me?" It was strange that now the she-warrior would so desperately seek her help. It stood on the tip of her tongue to gloat. "It seems my powders do hold some importance."

What greeted her eyes was the field of battle. Hundreds lay dead, hundreds dying, only few on their feet. Ragnelle sighed deeply. She saw the tall form of a Woad woman standing next to a kneeling man. Ragnelle quickened her pace until she was next to them. Fortunately for her, she was spared from having to grab their attention. "You are here. Please, please. He needs your help." Guinevere motioned to a dark-haired man, not the kneeling one. Her hand caught Ragnelle's arm quite fiercely, intended on guiding her.

"Who are you?" came the growl of the soldier on his knees. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Arthur," Guinevere began, hoping to calm her lover. Ragnelle was sure this was the same Arthur they said was going to make Guinevere his queen. "This is Merlin's daughter, skilled with her herbs and ointments. If anyone can save Lancelot, she can do it."

Lancelot looked dead to her, but Ragnelle bit on her tongue. She had to try. Kneeling beside the man, she pulled his hand from Arthur's. Slowly, her fingers traced a path to the pulse point. If he yet lived his pulse would show. Ragnelle closed her eyes and waited to feel the flow of blood and the beat of life. "Ah," she exclaimed softly after a few moment. "I need him moved." She looked to Guinevere. "If we remove the arrow here, he will bleed out and die."

Before any answer could be given, other joined them with yells of _Arthur, Arthur_. They had to be his knights from the looks of them. "Another one, I see." Ragnelle nodded to one man who was being carried between two of his brothers-in-arms. His eyes were closed. Lifting herself straight she passed the first line of baffled men. Looking sideways she spotted the stab wound at his side. "You must remove his armour and tie the wound." She pressed her hands to her sides to emphasise her point. Nobody moved. Ragnelle's gaze flew back to Arthur. "If you do not wish for my help, you need only say so and I shall be gone."

"Do as she says," Arthur's command came. "Galahad, come. Help me move Lancelot." Arthur was about to speak again when he saw the daughter of Merlin kneeling. "What are you doing, woman?" Instead of answering, she tore a wide strip of her surprisingly clean dress and wound it around Tristan's sides.

"It should give us some time," she murmured just as his knight let out a low growl of pain. "Take him," she pointed to Lancelot, "to a room with wide windows. And him too." This time she had meant Tristan. "I think it is best we also call upon my father's help in this. Guinevere?"

"Aye. I'll bring Nimue also." At least in this they were of a mind. Ragnelle smiled at the woman.

"It is good to have help and move quickly." Ragnelle had said that for the benefit of the bemused faces that regarded her with suspicion. If their place neither would she be trusting.

It must have been the hands of the gods for the battle to be held so close to the fort. Finding space was not easy, but they managed. The two gravely injured men had been found a room. Two beds had been brought and each had his own. Arthur's knights left to get their own wounds looked at, leaving only their commander. Merlin and his wife arrived just as Ragnelle decided the more critical case was Lancelot. She did not even look around when the door creaked, but said only this, "I shall care for this one."

The arrow had embedded itself deeply into the man's chest, but as far as Ragnelle could tell the heart had not been nicked. "Hold him down, so I may pull the arrow out." Her words must have startled the Roman for he advanced uncertainly towards her. "Is he important to you?"

"Like my own brother," came the low, quiet reply. Arthur held his friend down by the shoulders. He looked briefly to Merlin and Nimue who tended to Tristan. "Can you save him?"

"I can try." Ragnelle gripped the wooden body. "If he lives or dies, that is a choice he must make on his own." Men who did not want to be saved could not be saved. "But I incline to believe that he will choose life." She braced herself and pulled with all her might. Ragnelle was deaf to the yell of pain emitted from her patient, so concentrated was she on her task. Thankfully the arrowhead had come out as well. "Now we remove his armour. Hold him up."

As good as her word, the small woman started working around Arthur's hands to loosen knots and pull apart the protective cover of the knight. Underneath the found a blood-stained shirt which she took off without blinking. Taking hold of one of the cloths she set about washing the man's chest and back, wiping away the blood. "The wound will need filling." She produced a jar with a sweet-smelling ointment. Arthur narrowed his eyes at the content. "It will help with the pain also." Ragnelle ignored the heated stare and applied the ointment to the wound and around it. Then she wrapped the whole of Lancelot's torso in white bandages. "Set him down. We shall let him rest awhile before changing the bindings."

Done with the first of her patients, Ragnelle turned to the other. Her parents had finished long before her. This one hadn't as many wounds as Lancelot. His was one applied with skill. It had been meant to kill him. There was a slash across his chest which would heal fine without much help from her. But looking at his side, the woman could see that he still bled. If he did not stop losing blood until sundown there was no chance of him making it out alive. She would keep a close eye on this one.

Arthur watched the slight woman, looking more child than fully grown, busy herself with brushing Tristan's hair out of his face. Where Guinevere burned and brought life, the daughter of Merlin stood a quiet statue, belonging to the shadows. "I saw you not on the field of battle." White, clear skin, she bore no markings of a warrior, and if not for the makings of her garments, dark and sturdy, she might have been a woman of the fort.

"I was not there, Artorius Castus." She even spoke like her father. Seemingly sensing his discomfort at the way she addressed him, the young woman smiled in an almost sardonic manner. "I have little taste for spilling blood. Unless, of course, it saves a life."

Impertinent creature. Arthur's lips thinned in a straight line. "Do not mistake me, woman." She looked up, eyes narrowing onto his face. "What words are those?" These people owed him and his knights their lives. He told her so. "We saved you."

"Aye," she replied, pulling away from Tristan's side. "You have. Many thanks." Ragnelle put the rag down, allowing it to sink into water. "I do not refute that claim. But, Artorius Castus, you are a warrior. Should you say it brings you no gratification, the killing of enemies, I call you a liar."

"And I call you insolent," Arthur returned, garbing the woman's shoulder. "You do not know me, Woad." He might have shaken her harder than he intended to, yet her response was not what he had expected it to be.

"It is you who does not know me, Roman," Ragnelle spat back at him. She tore herself away from his grasp. "You are our leader now. And if you cannot hear harsh words then you must renounce all claim to the position. Others will not be as kind as I." Despite the roughness of her words, Arthur easily recognised the truth that left her mouth. She was not foolish, the daughter of his former enemy. Calming himself, Arthur nodded to her. "You have friends, but there are enemies still out there who will wish to take from you what you have earned. You must act quickly." Her eyes sparked. "And I must see to the other wounded." She inclined her head to him and left, swift of foot, as a wraith she disappeared.

Ragnelle found herself in a sea of wounded. Not an uncommon sight after a battle. It seemed that the healers of the fort had joined hands with the Woads. Ragnelle was about to find a man to tend to when someone garbed her arm and spun her around. He was tall and broad, his head bald. He gave little explanation and she needed to hear very little indeed to follow him. Brought before a knight Ragnelle looked the boy over. He was one of the youngest she had yet seen. "What ails you?"

He shifted his legs further apart to show a deep cut slashing against the top of his leg. Ragnelle realised moments later that the young man was so concentrated on breathing without making a sound that his teeth were clenched together. She knelt to inspect further. It was deep. The weapon had torn through muscle, but the bone hadn't been touched. Searching through the small pouch tied at her waist, she pulled out a herb and started chewing on it. The bitter taste filled her mouth and she almost grimaced but held herself back. The man was in pain, and here she was pulling faces at an unpleasant taste. The wound had been cleaned; in fact whoever had done it clearly knew how to be effective. Still keeping position on her knees, Ragnelle spit out the minced leaves. The men looked at her in wonder as she continued to do so.

Once nothing was left in her mouth, she gave the younger one a look of silent assurance. "It will keep infection away. Or else the leg rots and you lose it." His face paled at her words. Ragnelle spread the result of her work onto the wound, and then wrapped it, taking care not to apply too much pressure. "Come 'morrow the dressing must be changed. In the mean time keep off the leg, if you value it."

"Thank you," he spoke, surprising the woman. "You also saved Tristan's life, and Lancelot, though I'm not sure if I should thank you for that or not." The last part was his attempt at jest, which Ragnelle rewarded with a smile.

"Thank me when your friends find their feet." Charming fellow, the young knight returned her smile with a boyish grin. Sliding to her feet, the healer turned to go. There was only so much she could do for them at the moment, surely there were others seeking attention and care for their sores.

Men, the lot of them, were foolish creatures, Ragnelle considered as she watched the grinning faces. Slipping past a tall blond warrior, she took to a man her father's age. Her thoughts however had not moved past her earlier statement. Scoffing softly she decided it was best not to give it too much thought. Whatever good would that do? She would get only muddled thoughts and no answers. Enough that she'd spoken back to a man who would likely become her king, there was no need to search for anymore trouble.

* * *

Gawain clapped a hand to Galahad's back in a brotherly gesture of relief. His leg was bandaged and some minor cuts could be seen here and there, but otherwise the boy looked no worse for wear. Following his line of sight, he encountered the crouched form of that Woad woman Arthur's Guinevere had referred to as Merlin's daughter. A small creature, really. "Galahad, she's but a child," he chuckled.

"What mean you?" the other knight asked, pushing his hand away. His eyes turned away from the woman and he gave his companion a curious look. Galahad liked women in an almost innocent manner, and for this woman he held no special regard outside of her skills as healer.

"It is naught." Upon closer inspection, she yielded a sort of mellow loveliness. Unlike Guinevere's life lust, this woman offered a calm exterior, a serious mien and something akin to sadness. The knight could not read sorrow in her, yet she moved about half-detached, much as Tristan had done in their younger days. Deciding quite rashly that he would like to have words, Gawain left Galahad's side to journey to hers.

She did not hear his approach, nor did she tense at his nearness. She was, indeed, no warrior as suggested by her smooth hands and skin not the colour of cobalt. Now that he had noticed the state of her flesh, Gawain could no help but stare at those small hands wrapping bandages deftly. Aye, she was quick in her work. There were women with more grace than her, more beauty about their fair heads, but the sight of her concentration was pulling for some unknown reason. And what had not looked to be of any splendour on the field of death now radiated a glow that pleased the eye.

"You must find me a strange sight to be looking so intently, sir," came her unexpected reply to his behaviour. The young woman looked over her shoulder, and their eyes met. Gawain bit the inside of his cheek at the distrust he saw in her gaze. "Have you a wound that needs to be tended to?"

Aye, a wound, the knight reflected. A wound to the heart. Did the little witch know any remedy for that? "Nay. You have helped my brothers. I wish only to express my gratitude."

Something softened in those dark eyes. She nodded, but when his gaze did not wander, Merlin's daughter pursed her lips. "You wait upon me as if you have more to say."

"I would have your name, lady," the Sarmatian requested. At the very least he could learn the name of the woman who'd saved Tristan and Lancelot. "I am Gawain."

Distrust seeped back into her features like poison. It held but a few moments before she forced it away. "Ragnelle. For whatever good it does you, knight." She smiled briefly and rose, dusting her torn dress. When she noticed his gaze slipping to the broken hem, Ragnelle shifted slightly away.

Instinctively Gawain took a step back too. It had more to do with his own comfort than hers. Inclining his head, Gawain walked away. His mind replayed their conversation, a barely satisfying exchange. Freedom, Saxons. Death. Woads. All these were known to him know. Intimate friends, one would say. Whatever plans he might have had, Gawain now knew that he would stand by Arthur evermore. And mayhap that was not quite as tragic. He was witness to the birth of a new world, a free world. Looking about him he could see their ranks mixing with the blue-skinned men, ones they had once counted as enemies. Ah, the strange turns life could take.

"You've taken a fancy to the lass?" Bors questioned, nodding towards Ragnelle. He grinned at Gawain. "I thought you were heading home to find yourself a beautiful Sarmatian wife. But perhaps the Woad blood will serve just as well, brother. These women are as fierce as any." By which he probably meant they could compare to his Vanora when it came to violent tendencies.

"I name her child, Bors. Do you not see?" An innocent, nothing like the women that occasionally warmed his bed. Yet the thought itself of taking such a woman to his bed both excited and unnerved him. She was Woad. Gods, Arthur had taken Guinevere, but Gawain was not Arthur, and Merlin's daughter possessed another kind of danger to her than sharp knives. He could feel it when he looked at her across the wide hall. He could almost taste it.

"My Vanora is slight too. You wouldn't say that her slaps have as much force as they do, now would you?" Bors boasted. "Believe you me, that is no child." There was no man of Arthur's who did not know the feel of Vanora's hits, except for Tristan perhaps. No one would dare hits Tristan, but that did not stop Vanora from stabbing at the man with words. Brave woman. Crazy woman. Ragnelle did not strike him as being of the same ilk though.

Mayhap not. Vanora may have been a slight woman, but no one could ever accuse her of being a child. Sometimes, Gawain did wonder if she'd sprung from between her mother's legs a woman grown. It was hard to imagine Bors' woman as a child. Once more he found the daughter of Merlin with prodding a stare. Watching her from the profile he could easily see the outline of a female body underneath the coverings of her dress. Shaking his head Gawain adverted his gaze. Woman shape or not, it was none of his concern. Dismissing Ragnelle from his mind he found himself drawn into conversation by Bors and Arthur, who had appeared out of thin air it seemed. Perhaps his woman had infused into him some of the magic of her people. Gawain leaned against the wall and wished he'd brought some wine. Nothing better for it than wine to take his mind off of loss and hardship.

Having cared for the last of the persons who sought her aid, Ragnelle wiped her brow. The light of day was fading fast and she still had to look upon the knights yet incapacitated. That and she would have to change her dress, the woman thought blankly as she stared down to the torn hem. But the knights came first. After she would see to her dress.

Ragnelle made her way towards the room of the sick ones, her pace brisk. When she entered the first thing she saw was Guinevere bend over the form of Lancelot. She was telling him something, although the man's eyes were closed and likely he was not hearing her. Ragnelle cleared her throat, startling her fellow Woad sister. "He needs rest, and a change of bandages. If you wish to have words with the man wait until he has opened his eyes." She was not being cruel by any means, but Guinevere must have taken it for cruelty as she tensed visibly. "When he comes about you shall be the first I tell it to."

More relaxed at the small concession, Guinevere nodded. "Care for him. He is important to Arthur, a good friend. He saved my life."

Gazing quizzically to the other woman, Ragnelle hesitantly nodded. There had been something in Guinevere's face as she'd named the man important. Unable to exactly place it, Merlin's daughter stepped aside for Guinevere to take her leave, but her eyes followed her out. There had definitely been something in those intense eyes. It left her unsettled. Ragnelle brushed her hair away hurriedly, shaking her head. "No need to think on it. It concerns me not."

Cautiously she walked to the bed of Tristan. Placing her hand to the man's forehead, she felt the heat erupt against her palm. He burned with fever. "Good. You are fighting." If he lasted till morn, it was very unlikely that they should lose him after. Sarmatian knights seemed to live up to their reputation, came unbidden the thought. And thankful she should be for that, Ragnelle decided, considering it had been exactly their skill in battle to see them all through. "And by this life I give you, I repay you." Ragnelle pulled the cover down his torso, revealing the man's bare flesh. She gently unbound the wrappings, soaked in blood and sweat, and saw him cleansed afore she gazed to his wound. The stitches they'd put on him must have been disturbed somehow for at the end they loosened.

Picking a needle and thread, Ragnelle set to adding a row of stitches, strengthening the first. He would not bleed out by the looks of him. Tristan's face was pale and feverish sweat ran down his body, but there was a chance of him recovering. Ragnelle lifted the blanket over him, tucking it in gently.

A moment she took to breath her relief, then turned upon Lancelot. He had no fever to speak of, but his face was pasty and lacked the glow of health. His bandages were easily changed for even alone she could get him to rest in a sitting position, slightly against the wall. His breathing was good, indicating that no blood had seeped into his lungs. Likely there was no internal bleeding to hinder progress. Looking at his face, Ragnelle could not help but notice his handsomeness. Cyr would have looked a deformed creature next to this man. Little wonder then that Guinevere had found it in herself to admire him. She had always liked the handsome ones, that one. Ragnelle chuckled softly. Her sister was playing with fire.

Unease crept upon her again. Ragnelle could not seem to shake the feeling of it off. No seer, she'd never predicted the future. But sometimes the obviousness of it all brought certainty. And in this, Merlin's daughter dearly wished to be wrong. It would turn to be a passing fancy on Guinevere's part, for one could see the love she bore for Arthur. To Lancelot she was without doubt grateful. That had to be it.

"Oh, why do you concern yourself with the affairs of other?" Ragnelle asked herself in a quiet, impatient voice. Stepping outside the room, she hurried to the spot in which she knew she would find a bundle packed by her mother. Others had most likely gone to sup and she would be undisturbed if she chose to close her eyes for a few moments. She felt drained.

Grudgingly she peeled her dress off. Holding the garment up for inspection, Ragnelle knew she could do naught but patch it to the best of her abilities. Perhaps she could borrow clothing from her mother's bundle until she found the time to work on the dress. Pulling on those packings, she hoped to see a thick dress with the makings of her own. She was not disappointed. Ragnelle pulled the dress on, shaking the folds of the skirt a few times to allow it a graceful fall. "There, that should do the trick." It was pleasing to look well kept.

Finding a bowl of cool water, the woman washed her hands and face. She would have lain after, but her hunger would not let her be. Food would help her get a better rest and new energy for the tasks waiting ahead.

Ragnelle joined the crowd in the large hall. Long tables had been arranged with benches and chairs, and the aroma of food filled her nostrils. Her father waved her over, making room for his daughter between himself and Brigd whose sullen face had finally lit in a small, frail smile.

"Finally, there is peace," Brigd commented as Ragnelle slipped beside him. He gave her a look that spoke of genuine satisfaction. The healer nodded. A moment passed between them.

* * *

_**A/N: Instead of rehashing the whole movie, I've elected to move on. And yes, yes, Tristan and Lancelot live on, because I quite love these knight's of Arthur's. :)** _


	3. Chapter 3

Lancelot greeted the dawn with a low growl of pain. A string of curses made its way to his lips, none got out. Opening his eyes he found himself drowning into twin pools of darkness. The first though which came to his mind was that Guinevere had come by his side at the sickbed. However, upon a closer inspection, he wound the woman before him did not quite match the person in his mind. Nay, indeed not. Before him stood a woman of diminutive stature, clearly shorter than Guinevere. They shared but the colouring. "You're awake," she observed, her voice barely a whisper. Lancelot made to speak but she shook her head. "Nay, say naught."

Quite suddenly he wound himself being lifted gently. "I need you to push back." He strained to follow her instructions until he was sitting against the headboard. A cup was put to his lips and cool liquid sloshed over the rim. To his disappointment it was not wine. The woman allowed him a few sips, then placed the goblet on a low stool. She leaned over him, her hands working to take away the bandages that wrapped his chest. Lancelot looked down. What looked to still be a raw wound stood over his heart. Arrow, he decided not a moment later, hissing when the healer applied a kind of salve on the stop. Whatever she'd put there it stung.

"More water," he commanded, not caring if he should offend her. She looked up at him and nodded, but did not leave her task to do his bidding. His throat felt sore, he thirsted. "Woman, bring me water." His demand was met with another nod and silence. Sighing, Lancelot allowed his head to fall back against the wall.

He heard the clink of the goblet and lowered his head without opening his eyes. Once more his mouth was filled with the sweetness of fresh water. It was better than nothing. "Patience is lacking in you, Sir."

Ignoring her assessment, Lancelot waved her hand away. "Who are you?" She wasn't a wench that frequented Vanora's tavern, of that he was sure. Nay, she seemed not the right kind of woman for that. Perhaps she was one of the respectable inhabitants of the Fort. Lancelot smirked. "I don't recall having seen you."

"I am called Ragnelle," she answered simply. No smile graced her lips. Her eyes did not sparkle. She was one of those girls, kept and pampered, too good for scarred soldiers. "Daughter of Merlin," she continued undisturbed.

"Fuck the gods!" Lancelot exclaimed loudly. "Merlin's daughter!" He laughed only to wince and grimace after. The old bastard had actually sired a wee thing such as her? Not bad for a Woad. "How long have I been here?"

"As long as your friend over there." Ragnelle moved away, allowing him sight of the second bed in the room. Lancelot had been filled with dread at her words. Thoughts a muddle it took him by surprise to see Tristan upon the other bed. "It is the fourth day. It shall come as relief to your fellow knights to know you awake."

"What of Tristan?" The scout was a good fighter, Lancelot would even go as far as to name his best along with him and Arthur. "Does he wake?"

"He's lost blood. But he recovers. Slowly." Her face adopted a gentle but thoughtful mien. "There is a hawk. It keeps landing on the windowsill. I thought it might hunger, but when I try approaching it, it flees. Know you something of that, knight?"

Nodding, Lancelot allowed a small smile to cross his face. "Tristan's pet. And the only woman the poor bugger's ever had, I reckon." Remembering he was in the presence of a woman, Lancelot gazed to her with an apology. Waving away his concern, Ragnelle made a small sound that could have meant anything. "But she feeds herself, his lady. She is strong and independent, that one. She'll come in when her master awakes."

"Would you like some food?" Her question half-startled the knight. Prior to her outburst a silence had fallen over them. He nodded thinking she might get him some salty meats and a good cup of wine. Instead she returned with a chuck of bread and a bowl of broth. "What is that, woman?"

"Food," she replied, sliding on the stool next to him. Ragnelle lifted the spoon to his mouth, but Lancelot shook his head irritably. Her expectant gaze did nothing to soften him.

"I shan't eat that. Bring me some real food!" How dare she feed him that rot? Was he expected to survive on water? "Be on your way, wench."

"You will eat what I have brought you," she clarified, breaking pieces of bread and stirring them in the soup. "The past few days I've fed you and cared for you and you yet live. Trust me to continue doing my duty."

"It was my stubbornness that saved me, Woad," he retorted. His anger rose at her insolence. These wild women, they were all the same. "And I wouldn't trust you not to poison my water."

"And yet you drank water from my hands," she reminded the man. Satisfaction made its way to her features. "Eat, regain your strength and quit this room. You and your friend, both."

"What have you been feeding me?" Lancelot asked, curiosity creeping up on him. "I hope it wasn't this piss-poor excuse of nutrition."

Ragnelle gave him a slight glare. "Ungrateful man you are, Sir. You've been fed, aye. Honey water and brew of herbs." Her arms were crossed in front of her. "But if you shan't take the food, I will throw it away."

"Nay, wench, give me the food. And don't try feeding me like I'm a damn child." He took the bowl from her and was surprised to find its weight nearly too much for his hand. A small, warm palm found its way under his. Lancelot offered no protest when she took the bowl and grabbed the spoon. He would not be able to do it for himself, much as it pained him to admit it, and he was not willing to starve either.

"Give it time to settle, knight. A few days shall see your strength back." Seeing as he accepted her words, Ragnelle fed the man, patiently waiting for the blow on his pride to lose its sting. Men could at times deal very badly with bruised egos. She supposed that a man such as the one before her, in his vanity, would not see it with good eyes that a woman should care for him. Would he make such a fuss were she Guinevere?

A snarl caught Lancelot's attention. He looked yonder, expecting to see one of the scrawny mutts of the Fort, wondering how it might have gotten there. Instead his eyes met the sight of a small wolf-like mongrel. It gritted its teeth menacingly. No manners, and dirty too.

"Enough of you, Swyr." His mistress pushed the beast away with her foot. It was a gesture meant to bring distance between himself and the dog, if Lancelot was not wrong. The animal leaned towards him, eyes glinting. Ragnelle's foot came dangerously close to its paw. "Swyr out, boy! Go out!" She hadn't yelled, but all the same her pet followed the instructions, head hung. "Apologies. It's the walls that have him on edge."

"Then you should let him out," the knight grumbled. "Unnatural, that beast of yours. You need must take it out. What if it snaps at someone?"

"Think you that I have not tried?" Ragnelle laughed softly. "Swyr is mighty protective of me. Where I go, he is close behind. Rather like you and your Roman commander."

"Are you implying that Arthur is a dog?" Lancelot snorted. Soon enough he found himself laughing, a sharp pain emitting from his wound as warning. Her voice joined him, albeit quieter, more controlled.

"I was rather suggesting that you were the dog," she retaliated, knowing fully well that Lancelot had understood her meaning. "I must go now and let them know you've waken, least they crowd here come midday."

Getting up, Ragnelle bowed slightly to the man as she'd seen other women do and pulled the empty bowl to her chest. Swyr waited for her by the door, wagging his tail upon sight of her. "Have I not told you to sit?" It was not always that Swyr chose to listen to his mistress. Ragnelle petted his head. Perhaps pleased, her pet followed at her heel, not once trying to bite into the hem of her skirts. At the very least in these four days she'd learned the way to the rooms of their illustrious leader.

As expected at the doors she found soldiers in Roman grab. Bobbing a curtsy to them Ragnelle watched the men wearily. "I must speak to Artorius Castus." She kept her face a mask of indifference. Fortunately the men of Arthur seemed to heed his words for she was allowed entrance without much fuss, but Swyr had to wait outside. Arthur she found by the large windows, a parchment in hand. Guinevere sat by a low burning fire. Ragnelle bid them a good morning. "One of your knights has wakened."

Guinevere looked expectantly at her, but Ragnelle kept her mouth shut until the King would acknowledge her. "Which one?" Arthur asked, placing the paper on a table. "And what is his current state?" Concern touched his features briefly, but he seemed to read well enough into the healer's demeanour to gauge that news were not of bad ilk.

"Lancelot, I believe you call him thus. He fares well. Your god must be a merciful one to have listened to your prayer." Ragnelle looked to Guinevere. "The other yet slumbers. But his fever has broken. Short of any relapse I expect he too will open his eyes soon."

Rising from her current position Guinevere stepped closer to Ragnelle. "Arthur, I would see Lancelot first. I must thank him." She elaborated no further, but Arthur nodded his approval, and so young Guinevere left in the room but the new King and a healer with her mind full of doubt.

In truth Ragnelle had been held back by a sharp look from the eyes of the Roman, as she'd referred to him. "I wish to claim more of your time, my lady, should your duties so allow it." Ragnelle made no mistake of thinking his words an invitation, they were an order. "You are the daughter of Merlin. By right, you should come at my side as Queen. But, my lady, I find I cannot give you that."

Nay, he could not - better yet, he would not. Ragnelle found no surprise stealing over her. "Had you asked for my hand, I would not have had the right of refusing you, my King. But I knew full well that you would not take me to bride. Does my father demand otherwise?"

"Merlin would see you in the care of one who would be able to provide for you and protect you and yours should such need arise." While he hadn't said it explicitly, Arthur was letting her know that her father wanted to ensure strong ties between the knights and his people. Aye, Guinevere would be Arthur's Queen as a show of benevolence, as a sign that Merlin would not succumb to greed and place pride before the good of his people. "Thus the conclusion had been reached that you should take for your own one of my knights, my lady."

Ah, choice. Ragnelle smiled under the harshness of the man's glare. "I know not your knights well enough, my King, to demand it of them that they take me to their. So I ask this of you, put the question to them and whichever should step forward I will accept."

What did it matter which of them she was to wed? Cyr with all his fondness of her hadn't been able to elicit more than a brief surge of pain with his passing, not had he warmed her when he'd asked for her hand. As she protested to none of Arthur's knight it ought not to matter which one found his way to her bed in the dark.

Women, no matter their blood, confused Arthur. Merlin's daughter had accepted her father's decision calmly. And he wondered if despite their uncivilised state, the Woads knew of politics, for that was the name of the game. "I shall expect to hear your decision, whenever it is that you summon me, my King." Ragnelle did not wait for him to give her leave, she simply bowed and left, going the way of Guinevere. Arthur stared in her wake. May the God help those of his knight who took to taming her, for her eyes had shown little but a wall before her feelings.

He wondered if it was true what they said of her. The daughter of Merlin, was she really a sorceress? From the looks of her he would say nay, and from what he'd seen of her father, nay again. But women were dangerous. Soft words and wide eyes, they had a way of entrapping a man, making him forget, manipulating him, pulling at his strings and making him dance to their tune. Women complicated things beyond belief. But he needed to make this sacrifice for the greater good, for he'd already sworn to Guinevere that he would make her his Queen.

But which one of his knights to wed to her? Bors would not leave Vanora, the man was tied to the fiery redhead. Tristan and Lancelot were injured still, to add such a task to their strain was not becoming. That left him with Gawain and Galahad. The latter was still a pup, wet behind the ears yet. Arthur rested his head in his hands.

* * *

The taste of dust in his mouth brought forward a grimace from Gawain. He took another swing of his ale. At least this burn his tongue could stand. The blond knight had accepted an invitation from Bors to drink with the man. But as it happened Gawain did all the drinking, Bors busy holding the latest addition to his ever-expanding family. It was not that Gawain resented the man his happiness. The gods knew they all deserved a measure of it. But deep down, in the most secret part of his soul, the small seed of envy had taken root. This was not about a willing woman; there were whores for that. And most certainly not about the children. Bors' gaggle almost made him afraid of having his own. Yet Bors seemed at peace surrounded by the small army he'd pulled out of his breeches, and despite Vanora's nagging he was quite happy if one should judge by his face.

A woman of his own, one to share his life with, the peace she brought and eventually the children. He would take no Sarmatian woman now, he knew. Nay, Arthur stayed, so would he. In the end, Gawain supposed he would take one of the women at the Fort. Or he would do as he'd always done and have his needs taken care of by a nameless woman, forgotten come morning. But that had stopped being satisfying for a long time, even having continued as a habit.

"Melancholy today, are you?" Vanora asked, moving over to refill his cup. There were times such as these when she seemed almost maternal in her care for them. Few as they were, they did not go unappreciated. "Well then, out with it! What bothers you?"

"Vanora," Gawain began, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "Vanora, I'm just wondering when you'll finally grow tired of Bors and come to my bed instead." He smirked at her only to find her slapping his head the next second. "Ah, you wound me!"

"Batter I, my friend," she replied with a smile of her own. "Better I than Bors. Not even that pretty axe of yours will stop him. Now shush before he decides to shorten you by a head." Bors had just returned, having put his youngest to sleep.

"Woman, go mind the children," he said gruffly to Vanora, but eyed her tenderly. Such was their way, Gawain had come to learn. "Off with you."

"Bors, leave her be," Gawain cajoled the older man. "You think the poor woman will keep you if you hog her like that?"

"Mind you tongue!" Bors snapped at him, though without any bite. Vanora had cleverly departed, perhaps tired of males and their talk. "We'll see if you're any better when you have a woman of your own."

"Not all of us lose their heads in their women's skirts, Bors," the blond quipped, then laughed at the enraged look on his friends face. Bors would probably say something later. "I bet you wished Lancelot was here."

"Bastard, that one!" Borns spat. He softened a little, "He could have died, gotten himself killed. But nay, you don't escape the plague so easily. However, I would rather like to see how you deal with him when you lose your head in some woman's skirts."

One of Lancelot's many jokes rang into Gawain's head as he downed his ale. Hadn't the other Sarmatian said he would be thanking the gods that all his children looked like him? Gawain scoffed. Plague, indeed. "Have a care, Bors." Another pitcher was emptied. He was about to ask for another one, when a soldier entered. "What do want, boy?" Boy he was! No more than a child.

"The King would see you, Sir. He wishes to have words." The young soldier waited for the knight to rise. "Sir Bors, good day!"

As it turned out, Galahad had been summoned too. The younger knight had a serious look upon his face. But Arthur was by far the one worried most out of the three men. "So, what is it that you've called us for, my King?" Gawain asked, his voice holding the slightest bit of mockery to it.

"I've a request of you," Arthur told them. "Merlin asks that one my knight take his daughter to wife." His bluntness must have shocked them, for neither Gawain, nor Galahad said anything. But their eyes had come to rest upon Arthur, and the stares burned. "It is politically advantageous. It shall please the masses and it shall bring balance. Especially now. What say you?"

Merlin's daughter? Gawain tried to put a face to the person. He searched his memory, thinking of the Woad women that had returned to the fort after the battle. "What name goes she by?" he finally asked after a few moments of silence.

Sighing, the leader closed his eyes. "Ragnelle. I do believe she has cared for the wounded these past few days. You must have seen her."

That name brought a thought of warm eyes and a petite figure. "Of course." He'd seen her, aye. The wee lass, Gawain remembered well enough. "Any you wish one of us to pledge our troth to her?" Galahad hadn't said a word, but Gawain could see the boy was not exactly taken with the idea. For all he'd teased him, the boy did not wish to be forced into this match. "And should we refuse?"

"A man may rule so long as he has other men to offer him support. I cannot force you to accept. That is up to you," Arthur responded. "Do as you will."

Wife, house, children. Gawain spoke the words in his head. Would it be so bad? Surely not. She looked well enough, if a bit small. She'd done a diligent job of caring for the injured and she'd kept blessedly quiet. Not many women could do that. Aye, she would do as well as any other.

"Let me be of service in this, Arthur," Gawain finally spoke. Galahad shot him a look that spoke of his thankfulness. Gawain had to suppress a smirk. The boy did not know what he was letting go of. The quiet ones were all the more fun to be had. There was a certain sweetness about stripping them of their caution, and their affections were surprisingly strong.

"You may take your leave, Galahad." And the young knight did not need to be told twice. No doubt he would go and share the news with the fellow knights. "Shall I call for her? Or do you prefer if it is from my mouth that she hears."

"Call the girl. If Galahad can keep his mouth shut for more than a blink of an eye she won't have already found out by now."

Said and done. Arthur had not wasted time in bringing Merlin's daughter about, or rather the woman had not long to appear before them. The door opened and in she came. Gawain allowed himself to take in the image of her bathed in the light coming from the windows. She stopped before them, her eyes slowly travelled from one to the other, and then she returned her attention solely to the King. "A decision has been reached?" She asked it as if it were a little thing, too little to worry over. Gawain smiled at that. A mistake on her part, to care so little for the rest of her natural life.

"Aye, lady," the blond Sarmatian answered her. Finally she looked at him. Shrewd eyes seemed to take in every little detail. "Have I your word upon your father's then, my lady, that you should become tied to me-" he cut off abruptly. Arthur had not told him when he was supposed to marry the girl.

"After I am wed to Guinevere. Only after Tristan is awake too. Speaking of which, how fare my knights that I've left in your care?"

"Much as they did in the morn, my King." She nodded to let him know all was fine. "Should there be any change I shall not hesitate in making it known." Dark eyes searched Gawain's face. "I wish a word, Sir."

Nodding to her request, Arthur bade them leave. And leave they did. Ragnelle walked slightly behind the man she'd been promised to, her steps measured, her caution present. Gawain, not having the patience to play such games with her stopped quite suddenly. "Well, what do you wish to speak of?"

"I am curious, why have you agreed to wed me?" She thought for sure that her people would have said one thing or another about her by now. But it seemed that the knight had heard nothing. Oh, four days were not quite long enough. Ragnelle walked beside him calmly, aware that his stare followed her every step.

"For the simple reason that I may do so," Gawain spoke not a moment after she'd finished her question. "Does it please you?"

"Please me?" There had been no moment in which a woman had looked lovelier to him. Fiercer women than her he'd seen aplenty, more beautiful, fuller and more sensual. But lovelier, Gawain thought nay. It was not that she smiled a little secret smile, or that her eyes sparkled on him, or even that her hand touched him briefly, shyly. Nor did her words bring the feeling forth. "It please me well enough, knight, to do my duty." And yet hidden beneath those words Gawain saw something, a sliver of potential.

"Then, by the gods, lady, I shan't stand in your way." He would allow her the peace for now. "I shall escort you where it is that you wish to go."

"I yet have allies of yours in my care." How succinct of her. Gawain nodded. Indeed, she still had to mend the wounds of Lancelot and Tristan.

"Pray heal them soon, my lady." A wife, a family, a home. Gawain did at times wish he'd had Bors' luck and loved the wife, but he thought liking her was well enough too. She would do fine, he dared think, as fine as any Sarmatian woman.


	4. Chapter 4

Iseult washed her hands in the cool water. She did not dare look at her fair cousin for fear that the grief would swallow her once more. "I am truly happy for your news, Isolde. I am sure Mark will make you a fine husband."

The man they spoke of, Mark of Cornwall, was not present. When war broke out he had gone to join the fighting, leaving behind Iseult and Isolde alike. Both of whom hoped that he would ask one of them to marry him upon his return. Instead of that a letter had been sent to Islode's father, bearing words of praise for his daughter, fair and tall, forever with a serene smile upon her face and a skilful hum upon her lips. Iseult did not understand. She had been so sure that just this once she would get her wish; get the attention of the man she wanted.

"Oh, just think about it, cousin. Mark writes that he can hardly await our arrival." Isolde may have been sweet and fair, but she had not one sympathetic bone in her body. "Stay with Mark and I awhile. There are many knights at the fort. You might even find a proper husband among them."

But the only husband Iseult wanted was Mark. Refraining from imparting such knowledge to her cousin, Iseult simply shook her head. "I would not want to be in your way." Nor would she want to witness the happiness of the marriage. That jealous heart of hers! Iseult despaired at it.

"Iseult!" Islode called her attention, bright blue eyes filling with tears. "If you do not join me, I shan't go," she insisted, falling in her chair with a disgruntled sound. "And them Mark will be angered for it, and he won't want to speak to me again, thinking perhaps that my heart lack faithfulness. But I shan't care a whit for it. I will stay here with you."

Again, it was happening all over again. Whenever Iseult wanted to retreat to a dark corner and lick her wound clean, Isolde would pull her towards the light, threatening to disappoint other on her account. No one would blame Isolde, they never have and never would. They would curse Iseult for a spoiled brat, not knowing when enough was enough. After all, hadn't Isolde done a kindness to her cousin by taking her in when no one else would?

Their mothers had been sisters, both beautiful and witty. The only difference was that one had married a man whose wealth was increasing, and the other foolishly fell in love with a poor handsome lad who could barely bring bread to their table. So nature took its course. Isolde was born with gold in her curls and silk wrapped around her, while Iseult came into the world weeping for the life the fates had grated her. However, it was not that which made Iseult wish the earth would open and swallow her whole, lock her in its bowels, never to see the sun again.

Her poor mother had fallen ill when she was but a child of ten winters and within a season she left this world for another. Her father, with grieving heart in his chest, fell into despair soon after. It stated with an occasional cup of ale, and it turned into whole pitchers. He would come home stinking of ale, but smiling. Then his eyes would fall on her and the grin would vanish. Perhaps it was shame but the man would hide under the worn blankets and ignore the soft weeping sound of his daughter. By morning he was gone. And it went on and on until one day a few of the villagers brought him back, skull cracked open and blood matted in his hair. That had been the end of her father, and the beginning of her life in her cousin's home and shadow.

Not that Iseult did not appreciate her uncle's kindness in giving her a roof over her head, yet after years of being grateful she could not help the welling of remorse in her breast. Far from being inclined towards harsher sentiments, at first Iseult had loved no one better than she did her cousin. She hadn't minded being overlooked by young men; it seemed only natural to her for them to prefer Isolde's company, for any who knew Isolde could not help loving her. But with Mark it had been different.

Iseult had been a girl of fifteen when she'd met him. Older than her by half a score of years, he'd been the most pleasant man of her acquaintance up to that point. Gallant and amiable, attentive to her, Mark had given her attention like none other before him. He had for all appearance seemed to be as taken with her as she was with him.

Then he met Isolde. Iseult supposed she should have known he would instantly forget her the moment his cousin appeared in the picture. Yet she confessed she hadn't thought it possible. Moreover, Mark had encouraged her with easy flirtations that a girl would have taken to mean more than they were. Again, Iseult supposed she should have known better. Now she had irrefutable proof in the engagement of her cousin and the man she loved.

"I suppose then that I am much obliged to join you, cousin," Iseult finally gave in to the other's demands. "Yet I maintain that I would be better left here."

"Nonsense," Isolde brushed her worries away. "Are you not curious? Not in the last? I confess I can scarcely wait to see the fort and those Sarmatian knights. Admit it, you are curious too."

"Aye, but I could do well enough with not satisfying this curiosity." But perhaps the change of scenery would do her good. Surely Isolde did not expect to keep her for more than a few months in her home. She may yet find work at the fort. And who knew, if luck smiled down upon her, she could attract a decent fellow to make her house with.

* * *

If before he had been able to ignore Merlin's daughter, Gawain found that once she'd become promised to him, his eyes searched for her quite without his mind's permission. In truth it mattered little for the sight was pleasant. Ragnelle didn't seem to have the will to meet his stare but that was just as well. The knight much preferred observing her.

She did not seem exceedingly fond of conversing, yet to those that she was familiar with she addressed more words than to strangers. Generally she was of a pleasant disposition, if a bit closed off. Merlin's daughter smiled little, but when she did allow herself that particular expression of happiness it made her prettier than ever.

"Delightful, isn't she?" Lancelot asked from the seat next to him. "And quite good with her touch too."

"Take care that I don't knock you off your feet when you've just regained them," Gawain replied, his gaze breaking from the woman. "I see your recent brush with death has not lessened your stupidity any. Pity."

"Quite so," the dark haired man agreed. "But a thousand other such meeting with death haven't changed me. Did you expect a miracle this time?"

Snorting, Gawain returned his attention to the woman only to find her gone from her seat. He looked about the room with some puzzlement. Shaking his head gently, he returned to his food. Ragnelle he could no doubt find later tending to one knight or another. He found he was quite proud of the fact her skill had garnered acknowledgment and gratitude from those benefitting of her touch. And why should he not? A woman's actions reflected on her man. Indeed he had cause to feel as he did.

Lancelot, for example, was evidence enough of her skill. Not many days ago she'd been lying in bed, unable to move even along the length of the room. And now he dined with them, pigheaded and insufferable as he'd always been. It was a welcomed sight. Too many of his brothers had died already. If one could be saved – even if that one was Lancelot – Gawain would not protest.

Still, he was done with his meal. Looking at Arthur, he noticed, not for the first time, that his companion seemed distracted. While Guinevere was as lovely as ever, her attentions to the Commander had waned some. As consequence, Arthur had seemed, of late, in not such a good disposition. They ought to be wed soon.

If only Tristan would wake. Their friend seemed on the mend, yet he refused to open his eyes. Perhaps the little Woad witch could work her miracle over him too.

Finally, after what seemed like hours to Gawain, Arthur rose, allowing the others knights freedom for what remained of the day. Happy to comply, Gawain saw himself away from his fellow knights before they could tempt him with ale and gambling. He rather wanted the company of only one person at the moment. And he had a pretty good idea of where to find her.

As of late he'd taken to spending a few hours of every day in her company. He would either walk with her, or when she tended to wounds and such he stood somewhere out of her way, watching. At first she'd been disconcerted with his obvious attention, but as she grew used to his presence, she sometimes ventures words of her own. Gawain was happy with the situation.

Without much trouble he made his way to what was Tristan's sleeping chamber. He would her there. Just not in the manner in which he expected. She was composed, to be sure, but also in awe. Gawain only need cross the threshold to see what had her so.

"What the hell happened?" Tristan's deep and oddly chilling voice questioned. Clearly he hadn't improved much either.

"We won," Gawain answered, taking the brunt of his glare.

Of course he was then obliged to impart to his friend all the details he had missed. The only relief came from Ragnelle's continued presence. In spite of scout's dearest wish that she quit the room, the healer stood her ground and continued working on his wound, bathing and applying fresh bandages. Reluctantly, but seeing he had no means of escape, Tristan submitted to her ministrations with as little of a fuss as possible, and also relying on her promise of it taking a short while.

"I am glad you've come about." Gawain's claim was met with a glare. "Now Arthur can marry that woman of his. And I-" he paused to give the woman in the room a smile, "can marry mine."

This statement too was followed by proper explanations. Only this time Ragnelle excused herself, face reddening. Gawain let her be, although he found it hilarious. Returning his full attention to the scout he began informed him of other problems that might require his attention. "Any moment now the room will be flooded. I am truly glad you are awake, brother."

And they did not have to wait very long. Ragnelle, true to her word, had gone to the King to announce the happy change in the knight's state. That had prompted the others to follow Arthur and descend upon Tristan who was not at all ecstatic to be hovered about and generally treated as if he was somehow incapacitated by his wounds – and never would he admit to it if he was

But as he could not usher them out, Tristan simply glared and responded monosyllabically – or in as few words as he could – to their questions. Indeed they seemed concerned for him, to which he could not remain impassive. He could even forgive the fact that they'd allowed a strange witch to care for him. Though if one looked at her Gawain's woman –for he supposed she was that if he was to wed her – did not seem all that dangerous.

"My friends, it is good to see you," Arthur said. "We feared you might not return to us." Tristan was a valuable ally he could scarce afford to lose.

Catching her by the waist, Gawain had the pleasure of feeling the tiny mite squirm about in his arms. He felt, rather than saw her alarm and loosened his grip somewhat but not enough to allow her escape. "Do you always run away when there is talk of important matters?" Initially he'd only wanted to ruffle her feathers a bit, but now that she was in his embrace he found the prospect of letting go daunting. So instead of setting her on her feet he kept her above the ground. "Are you done fighting yet?"

"Do you make it a habit of jumping unsuspecting, defenceless women?" she retorted, and Gawain did not know if he rightly heard amusement in her voice.

"Defenceless? A Woad woman?" He set her to her feet and gave her a spin so that she may face him. "I don't believe that for a second. You forget I've seen your sisters tear a man apart with their bare hands." Now he kept a small distance between them as to not alarm her.

Perhaps he'd been thinking of her too much lately. But how could he not when soon enough she would share his bed? A pleasurable experience he was sure, at least from what he could garner from the feel of her in his arms. Delicate and small she might be, but her forms had his approval. More than his approval, if he was to consider his own body's reaction. Place temptation in the man's path and wonder why he does not avoid it when it comes in such lovely form.

"What want you of me, sir knight?" Her eyes sparkled up at him, her hand stopped against his upper arm.

What did he want of her? Gawain wondered, holding her waist gently. A great many things. But since she was not yet fully his and still too innocent to know exactly what he desired even if he did tell her, the knight simply leaned in and pressed his lips to hers in a chaste kiss. He quite liked the feel of her slightly moist lips against his. As expected her surprise inhibited her reaction. But he was not left waiting for it too long.

Ragnelle, whose experience with men had been scarce up to that point, suffered a moment's confusion at the knight's behaviour. She had seen people kiss before. Yet it seemed strange to her that this man should wish to kiss her. For what purpose? She was already to be his. She would have thought better upon the subject if she hadn't been distracted by the slight movement of his mouth on hers. Tentatively she pressed herself a little closer. She had to admit it was a nice feeling.

Cyr had stirred nothing alike in her. Ragnelle supposed it was foolish of her to be thinking of another man at the moment so she allowed the distraction to slip by and concentrated of the present. She could feel his hands sliding upwards.

Her easy acceptance of his touch brought a tide of relief over Gawain. He was now surer than ever that he would enjoy having her for a wife. "The sooner we are wed the better," he declared, this time kissing the top of her head much as one would a child's. Yet he feared that another attempt on her lips would take them quite farther than he'd indented. Especially as did not wish to cause her discomfort with his attention.

"You must not conduct yourself so," she told him with a light laugh. Ragnelle stepped further away from him, and out from under the relative protection offered by the alcove. "Have you no patience?"

Ah, so aside from the fact that her smiles were a rare enough affairs she teased him mercilessly too. "What kind of woman are you?"

"The best of your acquaintance, I don't doubt for a moment." But she rose to place a kiss at the corner of his mouth for all her teasing. Ragnelle did not quite understand it herself. She was not of playful disposition. Never had she been. Something about this man made her comfortable enough to tease.

Infatuation gave one a sense of giddiness. And while Gawain would not complain with the achieved result, he would have liked better in its place true affection. Aye, the girl liked him well enough to allow kisses and smiles, but somehow Gawain knew she guarded her heart from real attachment as fiercely as a soldier protected his lands. It was only natural for him to observe thus as he had more experience in these matters. Gawain almost sighed.

"Nor do I," he replied to her earlier statement. If it was within his power he hoped to plant within her the seed of something more. Looking at her, he held back a smile and the urge to really kiss her. There would be a time and place for that. "I haven't seen that dog of yours of late," he said by way of changing the subject. "Has he finally deigned to be off and not always tailing you?"

"Swyr? The kitchens suit him just fine until nightfall." Ragnelle gave him a curious look. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I'd grown used to the mutt growling warningly at me when I approach you." His confession had the desired effect, Ragnelle smiled, even laughed. "Are you quite sure I shouldn't fear for my life?"

"I thought you found Woad women infinitely more dangerous." Again with the teasing. "Nay, you needn't fear him. Swyr has grown quite used to you as well. I dare say he likes you."

"Don't expect me to make friends with it now," Gawain told her in a voice that brooked no arguments. Alas, he smiled broadly, ruining the effect of his stern countenance. He savoured his victory.

Gawain did indeed enjoy his future wife. He did not find in himself an ounce of regret for making the decision he had made.

* * *

Tracing the pattern of the dress with the tip of her finger, Iseult wondered if she'd ever as lucky as her cousin. Or at least half as lucky. Iseult reckoned she could make very well even without the love of everyone. Iseult only wished the love of one – and not even that one her husband. Nay, she could live without a husband's love so long as he gave her a child.

That was perhaps the wish she longed for most to be fulfilled. A child. A tiny human being who would love her, because she was the mother. A person who would mean the world to her and for whom she would mean the world too.

A soft rapping on the wooden door stopped her train of thoughts. The prospect of company produced within her a feeling of irritation. Alas, it was not the place or time. At least she knew it was not Isolde. Isolde never knocked. Since they were little the cousins had shared a room.

Bearing the same name as her daughter, the older Isolde entered the room with her usual grace. She took one look at her niece and sighed deeply. Sitting on the edge of her narrow bed, the woman brushed a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "Don't make yourself upset, niece. You will find many a worthy man at the Wall."

"I am not upset. I am glad for my cousin. She will be happy." And if these were not her feelings in the full, who was to say. Iseult smiled shakily at her aunt. There was no reason to show she was miserable in her company. "I just wish she would let me go in my own time."

"There is no better time than the present," Isolde the mother reminded her gently. "It will be a fresh start for you."

If others had been shy of approaching Iseult it was not only because her cousin suppressed her beauty, but also for the fact that her father had left her little as dowry. It had been her hope that a man in possession of sufficient funds would ask for her hand. Unfortunately that had not happened. It seemed that fair Isolde's charms were too strong and her lack of a dowry too important to overlook.

Her aunt had never shown much of a preference between her daughter and her niece. Of course her daughter was closer to her heart by virtue of being her child. But her sister's progeny had just as many merits. If her form was not as pleasing as Isolde's, she made up for it in virtue and rightness of character. Isode the older did not doubt that her niece would make a man happy when it came her time to wed.

"I dare say you will like it there. Mayhap you shall find there more than you bargained for." Such wise word imparted the older woman to the younger. She took her in her arms, stroking her back gently. "Had my sister lived she would have been proud of you."

While she would not say it, the aunt saw very much of her sister in her niece. They shared the same temper, even if their features somewhat differed. Both were kind and gentle, modest but strong in their own way. One should take the time to look twice at her niece, the woman decided. And she was certain Iseult would find that person where she was going.

Soon it was time to blow out the candles and see to the rest of the body. Iseult found it hard to sleep, knowing they would be leaving soon. Isolde had packed many bags and bundles, but she had taken only a couple of dresses and some food to have on the way. At the long last her body gave in to tiredness and she fell into a fitful slumber.

What she dreamt of, Iseult could not remember when the first rays of sun touched her face. She only knew that they'd not been pleasant. Yet as she was not one to dwell on such tricks of the mind, the young woman rose to her feet and looked to the light sky. The day would be good for travelling, she dared think.

Isolde still slept. Resisting a smile, Iseult crept closer to her blonde cousin and pulled the coverings up to her chin. The morning air was chilly. It would not do for her to catch a cold.

Gently making her way to where their bundles had been placed she made sure that everything they needed was there. God knew what would happen if something important got left behind. Iseult giggled quietly.

It did not take very long for Isolde to wake. It must have been for the fact that she was excited. What bride wouldn't be? In fact all the family was just so. Isolde's father started inquiring after their state of readiness as soon as he rose from bed, and was fairly pleased to discover that both of them were ready to go.

"It is to be expected, my dears. I am a patient man but all men are as good as I am." This he said as they loaded the cart together.

They were on their way afore noon. Iseult had been right as the day progressed admirably well. "How long is the journey, uncle?" she asked , shifting in her seat.

"If we do not stop along to night somewhere we should be there early on the morrow." The man then concentrated on leading the horses. Driving was not something he liked all that much, but there was nothing he wouldn't do for his beloved daughter.

Behind them trailed a few armed men which had been paid to see them safely to the Wall. Iseult was glad for them. The Roman retreatment had made way for plenty of thieves on the roads and one heard such stories. But she could breathe easy knowing that protection was to be had.

"Oh, father! I am so happy," Isolde cried out. "I can hardly wait to reach the Wall. Is it as great as they say?"

"To be sure, beloved. 'Tis the work of giants," was the answer she readily received.

So went they on with a mind to reach their destination as early and as well as possible.


	5. Chapter 5

Mark gathered Isolde to his chest, kissing her cheek in view of her father and her cousin. He picked her up and spun her around in circles, so happy seemed he. Iseult turned her head away. It was enough to hear Isolde's laughter and his throaty chuckles. She'd had quite enough of Isolde's incessant talking all the way to the wall.

It was impressive, Iseult decided after taking one look at the imposing structure. Certainly; she could see why they called it the work of giants. Her own village had been near a rich Roman's house and she had seen their buildings. Yet this took even her by surprise. She had thought her uncle to be joking, to be exaggerating.

Having disentangled himself from his beloved Isolde, Mark exchanged a short few sentences with the father, then came to stand before Iseult. "Cousin," he said with an ease she envied, leaning in to give her a short hug. It must have been a flight of fancy on her part, but she could swear his hold had been a bit tighter than required. "I am glad you came. Isolde would not bear to part with you, and I confess I feel much better knowing you safe here with us."

She should have replied that she had not come to make him thankful in any way, and that her being there should matter very little to him. But looking into his eyes she could not do so. It seemed that even having her heart broken hadn't opened her eyes. So much for progress. Iseult nodded her head, and managed a smile. Yet her lips remained firmly pressed together. If she opened her mouth, only God knew what would come out of it.

"They have priests here?" Isolde asked, giving the man she loved a dazzling smile.

"Aye, but the word of God has not reached all. So have a care all the same. The Romans have left." He said that as if the whole world would topple over because of it. "King Arthur," Mark said with something akin to derision, "enforces order as he may."

"King Arthur," Iseult parroted quietly. She had heard of the Roman commander. She wondered if he was as grand as the stories said. A giant among men.

Her father hadn't believed in God, Iseult remembered quite suddenly. Not since her mother died, anyway. At first he had accepted her mother's beliefs and even embraced God. However, with his wife's sudden illness and her subsequent death all the joy had fled his world and with it the word of the Creator.

Despite that the daughter hadn't renounced her faith. With her mother dead and a father as good as departed – it was just that he hadn't been buried with his wife – faith was all she had left. Iseult was sure that without that very same devotion she might have gone insane. God had protected her in His own way. She owed it to Him and her own soul to hold onto the faith.

The happy couple continued to speak, but Iseult was much more interested in her whereabouts as they enter the wide gates. She noticed with a small smile that the road was paved with stone, wide and smooth and pleasantly warmed by the sun. There were few things she loved better than walking along such neat roads. Stepping to the side, she was about to take off her thin soled shoes when she saw a child looking at her. His blond hair was matted and dirty, his skin covered in dust and sooth. Dark eyes peered at her from a serious face, unlike the carefree visage a boy his age should have.

"Good day," Iseult said gently, a tentative smile blooming on her face. The boy continued to look at her with haunted eyes. It was somewhat uncomfortable. The satchel that she had slung across her shoulder hanged heavy. Perhaps she had some apples left in there. "Would you care for an apple, young man?"

Licking his lips the child nodded slowly. A ray of sun hit him, and Iseult was suddenly struck by the blue of his eyes. Such a fine, dark blue. Her hand crept inside the bag. She groped around for the promised treat. When she finally grabbed it, Iseult allowed herself a fuller smile, and she would have handed him said apple if she wasn't scared out of her wits the very next moment.

"Iseult!" her uncle's voice rang out from somewhere ahead. "Where are you, my girls? Iseult!"

Scared too by the voice, her little friends turned tail and ran away as fast as his skinny legs could carry him. Signing Iseult dropped the apple back in her bag as the boy dashed past Isolde who wrinkled her nose at him.

"Whatever are you doing, cousin?" she asked, nearing her. "We thought we'd lost you."

"I was simply trying to give the poor boy an apple. He looked as if he might've enjoyed it." Her explanation earned her a look of mock despair from Isolde, a stern glare from her uncle and a kindly stare from Mark.

"That's our Iseult, a bleeding heart." Isolde tittered, smiling the next moment. "Oh, Mark! But the poor child did look dreadful."

"I assure you, ladies, it is not the case. He is well taken care of. The boy was brought by the knight from beyond the Wall, and to this day he is in their care." Rubbing his hands, Mark took Iseult by the arm. "I know you do not like to witness the suffering of other and try to help, but he has no need of it."

"So thoughtful," her uncle commended her. "Alas, alas. When you wish to make away from us, my dear, do let us know."

Blushing hotly at the rebuke, Iseult dropped her head in contrition. "Apologies, uncle. I had every intention of catching up to the fastest of my abilities." She was no child to be scolded in the street.

"Come, we shall away to my house." Mark's invitation was followed enthusiastically by the bride and the father. Iseult walked behind them, deep in thought.

Once more it became apparent to her that she could not stay with her cousin. But what could she do to earn her living? Perhaps there were a few houses in need of a maid. Aye, cleaning and cooking that she could do. Surely even at a military fort there were a few women who would appreciate a helping hand.

Iseult hugged her bag to her chest and looked around hopefully. This was her new life, she would not allow herself to be intimidated by her doubts now.

* * *

The worm wooden table gleamed in the sunlight. The scent of vinegar was still strong in the air. Ragnelle eyes the wooden structure with some pride. At least now it did not look like a feast for termites. And the old woman had been right indeed. The vinegar worked like a charm.

A horrible creaking assaulted her ears, and Ragnelle thought with longing of the soft, pelts covering of the houses in her village. The keep was so noisy that the young woman feared her heart would not be able to take the scared doled out by shouts carrying through the halls and sharp sounds coming from door opening or closing.

Ragnelle executed a controlled half-turn, craning her neck to see who the intruder was. She spied the small dirty hands and the scraggly hair. Ragnelle smiled. "Come on in, Lucan," she called to the boy who stood in the doorway.

Lucan had been brought along with the men and prisoners of Marius, or so Guinevere had let Ragnelle know. The boy had been very attached to a knight who lost his life. Dagonet, if she remembered correctly. He rarely talked and more often than not clung to the shadows. It was only when he needed something that he came to the adults and even then one had to coax it out of him.

Entering her domain, Lucan looked around shyly. Ragnelle looked him over in the meantime, trying to determine if he was hurt in some way. Despite the fact that Dagonet was no longer, his fellow knights chose to care fro the boy. As such she'd seen the child around them more than once. Ragnelle eyed his cheeks. Honestly she could tell little to nothing with all the dirt streaked about his face.

She rarely had dealing with children. Ragnelle had aided wounded and wrapped minor cuts, but never assisted a birth. A woman who had not a child of her own could not help another, or so it was thought. But seeing Lucan now, she did not think that tending to the boy would be a trial for her, if only for the fact that he was so well behaved.

"Can I help you?" she asked, sitting down on a stool. Perhaps he would feel more confident, less threatened if she did not loom over him like some hungry giant waiting to snatch its food. Although to be fair, her own height was not very much, and so not very likely to inspire fear. Her face though could cause some problems. Perpetually frozen in its stiff veneer, her visage gave the distinct impression of a cold, aloof individual.

Stepping towards her, Lucan lifted the sleeve of his shirt, rolling it up. Ragnelle leaned further in and gave what looked to be a rash all her attention. "Have you been playing in the gardens again?" Ragnelle questioned teasingly. She gave the boy a reassuring smile. "Don't worry lad, 'tis nettle to undo you."

It was perhaps with the children of Bors that Lucan spent most of his time. Yet he did not belong in that family. Vanora was kind and motherly, but she had eleven mouths of her own to feed and did not need the added trouble of a frightful, reluctant boy. So it happened that Guinevere asked Ragnelle to keep and eye on the child until a suitable family could be found for him. Ragnelle for her part was only happy to do so, as it kept her out of any planning for the bid event that was the wedding. She supposed that as a newly minted Queen, Guinevere could not make do with a simple ceremony.

Sitting up, she rummaged for the dandelion paste which she made only a few hours past. An orderly sort, Ragnelle knew where she'd placed the small container. She took out the wooden bowl, taking off the covering. Beckoning Lucan closer she took his arm and held it in a slightly elevated position. "I'll rub this in, shall I? It'll help with the itching."

The gods knew stinging nettle was the bane of any child's existence. One moment they were playing in the fields, the next they were desperately scratching at an itch that would simply not go away. Ragnelle smiled again. She coated her fingers in the thick concoction. It did not have a strong smell, but it was awfully sticky. She applied it on the reddened and slightly ridged area, and rubbed it into the boy's skin. Lucan whimpered a bit, but did not pull away or fidget. She liked that about him.

"Now that I've done you this favour, you must do something for me." The boy blanched slightly. He knew exactly what she'd meant. "Just your face, silly boy." Ragnelle's assurance calmed him a bit; enough not to protest too loudly when she dipped a rag in lukewarm water and set about wiping away the dirt on his face.

For the wedding he would be required to take a bath anyway. And if she knew him, the moment he was out, Bors' children would call him back to a game filled with shenanigans and dirt, Ragnelle was sure. "Well, go on then," she said after finishing her task.

Happy to comply, Lucan dashed out the door, leaving behind a smiling Ragnelle. "Boys," she murmured. At least now she could return to cleaning the room. Ragnelle wondered, not for the first time, how someone could work in the clutter that had previously occupied the space. The small measure of privacy suited Ragnelle just well, for even as her suitor had proved himself an amiable, capable man, she would not be so easily won over or that effortlessly coaxed out of her shell.

Deft fingers traced the smooth wood, once more admiring her work. She prayed that the peace kept. For the sake of all under Arthur's care, she hoped he would have along, undisturbed reign. She sincerely wished that the dread lingering as a bad aftertaste meant nothing.

* * *

Lancelot laughed heartily. His enjoyment of teasing his fellow knights seemed not to have diminished at all. If anything the impeding nuptials of his friends amused him greatly. At a first glance, anyway. "Your wench has a talent for getting us on our back, Gawain!" he roared over the booming laughter of Bors. "She must be very merciful and kind for even Tristan was found his way in her care."

Gawain, who was sparring with young Galahad, knocked his partner flat on his back with a powerful blow. "My wench saved your life." It would be too much to ask of Lancelot to show respect, so Gawain did not. Yet the sword pointed in his direction. A fair warning as far as Gawain was concerned. Lancelot should learn to keep that tongue of his in check.

"At least she is of some use," Tristan spoke. Even injured he still managed to scare half the population of the Wall, and make the other half apprehensive. "Unlike you, Lancelot, who has no use beyond a face women ogle."

The quip was met with roaring laughter. Even Lancelot dared a sharp smile. The good-natured teasing was their way of showing camaraderie. The truth was that with their injuries neither Lancelot, nor Tristan was apt to take up swords anytime soon. And in such conditions, especially considering their enemies had been crushed, they did not quite know what to do with themselves.

Galahad picked himself up with relative ease. His wound had been much lighter and faster to heal. Still his leg showed signs of stiffness. Gawain clapped a hand on his back.

"Now that Arthur is in the business of matchmaking, perhaps you should ask him for a wife of your own, pup," Lancelot hurled towards Galahad. "I'm sure there are some good, Christian maidens that will be very thrilled indeed to have you."

"Is Gawain's wife not to your taste, Lancelot?" Bors teased before the fuming Galahad could reply.

Arthur's arrival quieted them some. Their leader was greeted with respect. Gawain wondered at his appearance, for Arthur had been a busy man these past few weeks. More and more people were coming near the wall, houses were being built and their protection sought.

"Friends," Arthur greeted them. His green eyes took in each and every one of his soldiers, a habit still in use from their first missions. "I trust you are all well."

"Very," Lancelot responded with that easy manner of his. "And we would be even better if you'd tell us when the happy event takes place. Gawain here is quite enthusiastic, and he might just make off with that girl you've promised him."

"You are awfully preoccupied with these matrimonial matters," Galahad observed, an impish smile on his face. "Perhaps you should consider finding him a woman too, Arthur."

Such banter was to be had ever since it became quite clear that their leader did intend to wed the Woad woman. Gawain's own marriage only added to it. The merriment would have been even more convincing had Gawain not seen the shadow in Lancelot's eyes.

Of late his friend appeared to be forcing his smiles quite a lot. Out of them all, Lancelot had always appeared to be the most carefree, and he was very good at hiding his sorrows behind a quip and a grin. Alas, he was a man grown and he could take care of himself. Gawain turned his head away and looked at the high walls, hoping to catch a glimpse of his own woman.

If in the mornings her time was spent in the medicine room, later on she was tasked with the care of the knights still injured. And with that occasion she also brought them food cooked by Vanora at the request of her lover.

Yet it seemed that he would be disappointed. It was two of Bors' brood that brought the food. They squabbled, scurrying along the path, the cauldron swaying between the two of them. Should any of the two trip, they would be left with no food.

"Bors," Gawain called the man's attention. He nodded his head to the two children. "Discipline them before we lose our meal."

Bors, not one to suffer the loss of food lightly, yelled at the two . That seemed to get their attention and their cooperation long enough for the cauldron to be brought on the low table in the yard. Behind them came another with bread and bowls.

And so like many other times before, the knights of Arthur took their meal together, jokes and laughter flying about. There was little point in considering the future more than they already had. What would come would come, for if it was bound to happen, they had no way of stopping it. In any case, Ragnelle would be in his proximity constantly in a very short while, and perhaps then he would tire enough of her. Like any new discovery, the thrill was in the unknown. This daughter of Merlin.

Thinking objectively about the matter, Gawain had to admit to being surprised. Merlin could have insisted upon a marriage between his daughter and Arthur. Yet he chose to allow Guinevere her queenship and gave his daughter to a knight. In any case he stood to lose a lot of potential power with that move. Or perhaps there was something he did not now yet.

Gawain's attention was forced away by Bors launching a loud challenge to Galahad. Sighing, the blond knight knew that on the morrow he would only regret that. Trying to out-drink Bors never ended well for anybody involved, as their massive friend was not in the habit of loosing and could imbibe astounding quantities of alcohol when the situation called for it. But the challenge was set and he could do no more but join as the tankard of ale was slowly emptied in jugs and anything else that could hold it.

The familiar sting of ale left his throat dry. Gawain took a deep swing of his drink, thinking with some satisfaction of the pain that would be on the morrow.

* * *

Dust had gathered even between her ears. Iseult gave a silent curse. Where could she possibly wash in Mark's house without it seeming inappropriate? A knock on her door made her jump right out of her skin. "Come in!" Her voice was shaking.

Mark entered the room, a small, shy smile on his face. Iseult froze. "What are you doing here?" If her bath would have been inappropriate, this was ten times more so. For Heaven's sake, he was to marry her cousin. "Mark, you cannot be in here."

Placing a finger before his lips, he bid her to be silent. "I want to show you something."

Did the man think her a fool. Iseult's eyes narrowed into slits. "I am going nowhere. The hour is late and I am tired."

His smile dropped at that. "Iseult, you and I are friends, are we not?" His question brought a knot to her throat. "Surely, you have not forgotten that."

"Aye, we are. But even friends do not sneak about in the middle of the night." Her gaze softened. "Whatever you wish to show me may wait until the sun rises again."

Now Iseult was no foolish girl to think herself immune to any man's charm. Knowing very well just how persuasive Mark could be, she took great care of making her words firm. If he got her out of this room, only God knew what would follow. She liked him. She longed for him. But not for one night. She wanted him for life. If she could not have that, nothing else would do. Besides, Isolde would be heartbroken if she ever found out.

"It is best you leave now," she said slowly, sitting in a wicker chair. If he lingered she would falter. She could not allow that under any circumstances.

"Iseult," he called in a soft voice, kneeling at her side. "Iseult, look at me." Her refusal only made him more insistent. "I did not mean to upset you."

"You have not upset me, Mark. It is just that such behaviour is inappropriate." She wanted to remind him to leave, but for some reason the words would not come out a second time. Iseult looked at the man, his handsome face making her want to weep. Why was he being so cruel?

Standing once more, he placed a hand on her shoulder. The weight and warmth of it shook her. Iseult pulled back instinctively. She would try to appeal to his reason one more time. "On the morrow you shall marry Isolde and make her a very happy woman. You mustn't be tired." Her urging did not seem to affect him much. If anything his grip tightened. "Mark, please. This is unseemly."

"I don't care about that," he replied hotly. Hooking a finger under her chin, he brought up her round, small face, forcing her eyes to his. The look he gave her was desperate. That Iseult understood. But why? Isolde was his choice. "I had to do it. I had to choose her."

"Then it is for you to live with that choice," Iseult grounded out, the bitterness clear in her words. "Do not make this anymore difficult than it has to be."

"I thought that if I convinced her to bring you along-" the rest trailed off. Iseult wrenched herself away from his grasp. "Iseult."

"You thought that I would applaud at your intelligence, and be a third member of you marriage." She had spit that out at him, her face blushing in anger. "But I tell you now, if so much as think to make a fool of me again, I will make you regret it."

She had to leave. She had to go somewhere, away. Away from him and his tempting presence. Iseult was not made of iron; she was not unfeeling. Quite the contrary, she felt too much and for the wrong persons too.

"I suggest we forget this ever happened," Iseult allowed her voice to come out finally. "Sleep well, and I shall see you on the morrow."

Seemingly defeated, Mark nodded at her solemnly. He looked as if he wished to say something more, but her glare did not give him leave to speak, and either way he was not that much of a fool to think he could convince her to participate in his scheme in one single night. To him this was testing the waters. He would wear her down, eventually. Just like he'd done when he started courting her. Iseult could be stubborn at times, but his attention would not remain unfruitful. If only Isolde's father would be on his way.

He walked out the door, leaving behind a whimpering woman. He knew she would not be able to stop thinking of his words. Mark was willing to wait. Iseult was worth it.

The young woman he thought so fondly of was already planning the best way to escape the situation. Had she known the truth behind his invitation, she would not have accepted, even at Isolde's insistence. She would not shame herself, nor would she sell herself so cheaply. She deserved respectability and to be respected. But she needed some means of escape. Perhaps if she found work. The less she saw of Mark the easier it would become for him to let go of his delusional plan. Damn the man for doing this to her.

Briefly she wondered if her taste in men was similar to her mother's, because from where she stood it seemed to be. Such a pity. And she thought herself well-balanced and relatively smart.

Sinking to her knees, Iseult swallowed a sob. "God in Heaven, my Lord, help me," she prayed, tears running down her cheek. "I beg that You would show me what You wish of me." He could not possibly want her to besmirch her honour and destroy her cousin's happiness. "If in Your mercy You would choose to strike me down, my Lord, then I would gladly accept that as my fate." Indeed, death would be preferable to this.


End file.
